


Madness Most Discreet

by 666pm



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, GuidanceCounselor/Therapist!Derek, Haphephobia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, Punk!Stiles, badboy!Stiles, derek comes off as a creep at first but just u wait
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2015-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-18 20:07:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1441180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/666pm/pseuds/666pm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles doesn't like being touched. Derek is his guidance counselor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Choking Gall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A slightly revised first chapter.

Panic attacks, like earthquakes and floods, come in degrees of severity and preventability. Usually they are neither calm nor preventable, but there is a scale. The one he’s having in fifth period on the first Monday of the year is tipping off Stiles’ Scale of Scare into an abyss of cardiac arrest and/or his paralyzation. 

The history classroom, so white and polished, and Scott’s fucking hand on his fucking shoulder, his fingers brushing his clavicle, and suddenly the buzz in his right temple that he feels every time and god, it’s not Scott’s fault, he just forgets sometimes, but his heart is like a caged lion in his stomach, his breathing whirring like a chainsaw. He can’t stand. They were laughing a second ago, the half-laughter of students trying to make friends, but now there is a sharp, concerned, silence. The are you alright mans? fan out into his peripheral vision and he’s trying too hard to slow his breathing but it’s caught in his throat. Scott gets it, suddenly, jerks his right hand off of Stiles’ shoulder like it’s a grill.

“I’m going to sit down.”  
He hates the attention, he hates the eyes and hates the hushed conversation that follows him.   
As he sits down he touches his shoulder, almost as to check if it still exists. Yes. His skin is softer than anyone else’s. He counts the seconds between each breath as they slow like a dying fan. 

Scott is sitting next to him with a constipated expression on his face. Look at him, look at his face, why do you hurt everyone you come in contact with?

Turning, Stiles whispers between huffs of air, it’s ok, it’s ok, jesus christ, it’s ok.


	2. Misshapen Chaos of (almost) well-seeming forms.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Next up on:  
> 'A chapter that was abandoned in my quick notes app for three months':  
> Derek is a creepy guidance counselor?  
> Stiles continues to be broken?  
> Derek POV?  
> What?

It’s lunch break and the boy is very young. Very young and very beautiful, with some sort of sickly paleness to his cheeks and twitching hands. He doesn’t care if his staring comes off as rude, he is. Descendants of those who chewed through the sinews of human necks tend to care less about the public’s opinions of decency than most. 

Intuition, like most talents, cannot be strengthened without exercise.  
He lights a cigarette.  
Technically, it’s illegal to be smoking on school grounds, but Principle MacMillan owes him several dozen favors.  
It’s easy to stare at a group of kids and see which one is the odd one out, sure. But the odd ones don’t usually carry invisible wiccan pentagrams around their bodies like hula hoops. The boy. The tattoos snaking out from under his rolled up flannel sleeves. The military hair. The twisted little shit-eating grin. Derek won’t deny he would like very much to crowd mystery boy against his locked office door and have his merry way with him. He is not afraid of his own attraction. He has self control deeper and steelier than barbed wire. If he felt ashamed every time he wanted to fuck the brains out of a high school freshman at Starbucks, or palm a fifty-eight year janitor, he would’ve gotten up the self-loathing to put a bullet through his brain stem by now.

His interest in mystery boy has nothing to do with his beauty, however. Derek likes a good project.

Derek watches, reclines, smokes like a chimney, waits for the kid to notice him.  
Mystery boy looks up.  
Derek stares impassively into his eyes, exhales whitish smoke, beckons. He is aware of his own attractiveness, of his intensity, of the mesmerizing quality of smoke. He uses his magnetic pull militantly. He is aware that he is any teen boy, gay or not’s, wet dream. (He’s not directly claiming to have erotic power over the straight male agenda, but, all the “straight” dicks he’s fucked and sucked in his day can’t be counted on only ten fingers.)

Mystery boy is surprised, his big brown eyes widen comically. This is his part, then. The weird kid's way in is always to play a part, and his is the clown. He points to his chest inquisitively.

Derek nods.

Mystery boy's mouth moves around silent behind-the-window syllables, waves goodbye to the friend with the crooked jaw, the friend with the pretty hair, opens the door to Derek's office, crowds his slight body inside.

"Can I just ask why?"

"Sit down."  
The boy is no longer a mystery. He is playing 'clever kid' now. This is a character Derek knows well. He puts out his cigarette in an ashtray, and prepares himself for an unreasonable amount of sarcasm. The kid sits across from him, visibly trying to cover his discomfort.

"Are you free this period?"

"Are you allowed to be smoking on school property?"

"Answer the question."

"Oh, the name's Stiles, by the way. Thanks for asking."

Derek's natural reaction is to pull his face into his favorite toothy predatory smile. Stiles is unfazed. Across from him, he picks at a large scab on his left pointer finger knuckle, exposing an expanse of tattooed wrist flesh right underneath his cargo sleeve. 

"Do you have a free this period." He enunciates dangerously, clasping his hands and staring directly into Stiles' face. Stiles looks away, avoiding eye contact with an expected ease.

"Yeah, whatever man. What do you want? Who are you?"

"My name is Derek Hale, I am your, and every other student in this school's, guidance counselor. You are not special, or in trouble. You could've noticed the sign on my door, but you were decidedly unfocused, a state I'm guessing you're in a fair amount of the time. Stiles, enlighten me. Is this because you are constantly evaluating your physical proximity to those around you?" 

Stiles tries on playing dumb for a moment, but quickly he abandons it for an expression of genuine shock. His face flushes a peachy pink, the constellations of black moles spread over his cheeks stand out alarmingly against the glow of it. Derek finds himself liking that expression a little too much, a coil of something hot tightens in his gut.

"If you heard about what happened in class..."

"I haven't, would you care to fill me in?"  
If it's possible, Stiles' face grows redder.

"The not touching thing.... it's just, a lot of people don't like being touched, it's not weird... Ijustdon'tlikethefeelingofhandsok?Idon'tlikepeoplegettingintomyspaceok?it'snotweirdalotofpeople... "

"Sh."  
Derek shuts him up. 

"Now calm down."  
They stare at each other, the faces of two boxers ready to duel. Stiles narrows his eyes. Derek narrows his. Stiles licks his lips, they shine with spit. Derek catches himself from watching. Self control.

"I don't expect you to justify anything today. I expect you to come back after school tomorrow ready to talk about your aversion to touch."

"And if I don't?"

"You risk suspension."  
Stiles scoffs.

"Or, in the long run, expulsion."

After another charged moment of prolonged eye contact, it ends.

Stiles gets up slowly. Hands in his back pockets, he exits, and through the rectangular window, Derek can see him curl into himself, his posture slump. Alone, Stiles acts for no one.

Derek lights a second cigarette.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you cutie patooties who are commenting and kudos-ing (?). Updates will continue to be weirdly spaced, not gonna lie.


	3. The Serious Vanity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a filller i suppose.

Panic attacks, like earthquakes and floods, come in degrees of severity and preventability. Usually they are neither calm nor preventable, but there is a scale. The one he’s having in fifth period on the first Monday of the year is tipping off Stiles’ Scale of Scare into an abyss of cardiac arrest and/or his paralyzation.

The history classroom, so white and polished, and Scott’s fucking hand on his fucking shoulder, his fingers brushing his clavicle, and suddenly the buzz in his right temple that he feels every time and god, it’s not Scott’s fault, he just forgets sometimes, but his heart is like a caged lion in his stomach, his breathing whirring like a chainsaw. He can’t stand. They were laughing a second ago, the half-laughter of students trying to make friends, but now there is a sharp, concerned, silence. The are you alright mans? fan out into his peripheral vision and he’s trying too hard to slow his breathing but it’s caught in his throat. Scott gets it, suddenly, jerks his right hand off of Stiles’ shoulder like it’s a grill.

“I’m going to sit down.”  
He hates the attention, he hates the eyes and hates the hushed conversation that follows him.  
As he sits down he touches his shoulder, almost as to check if it still exists. Yes. He rubs the wings like a religious woman counting rosary beads. His skin is softer than anyone elses, will never abuse him or bruise him. He counts the seconds between each breath as they slow like a dying fan. 

Scott is sitting next to him with a constipated expression on his face. Look at him, look at his face, why do you hurt everyone you come in contact with?

Turning, Stiles whispers between huffs of air, it’s ok, it’s ok, jesus christ, it’s ok.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So um.... basically updates are going to be quicker and shorter. I write very slowly w/ a LOT of editing so you're just gonna have to stick w/ me. Thank you to those who bookmarked/kudos'd/commented u guys rock. Sorry for the giant delay, as well. Been busy.

**Author's Note:**

> You know that scene in Charlie's Chocolate Factory, when they're in that boat, and it's dark, and the oompa-loompas are drumming really ominously, and Johnny Depp (or Gene Wilder, it's your imagination) is chanting "ThEres nO knOWINg wHere THey're goIng...", tbh that's the feel I'm getting from this ridiculous brain child of procrastination.


End file.
